Chapter Three

       “And behind there is where the preppy rich kids hang out, trying to be tough and cool,” Dylan explained, pointing to a convenient store as we passed by it.

       “What exactly do they do?” I asked, turning my head as the small store began to fade away into the distance.

       “You know what? Come here at about four on a weekday, and you’ll find out,” he said, smiling to himself at an inside joke I’m sure he had with his friends related to the area we had zipped by.

       “Will do,” I said, staring back out my window at the scenery around.

       It was like any other normal town. It had houses, gas stations, supermarkets, parks, real-estate agencies, gyms, a library, restaurants, a few churches, a movie theater, a mall, a synagogue, elementary schools, a middle school, a college, and the place I would be spending most of my days: the high school—Madison High, to be exact. It was like all the other places I had lived over the years. Nothing overly different or special about this town. It was nothing new.

       “So, where are ya from?” he asked, spinning the steering wheel as we turned down another street.

       “Originally, or most recently?” I questioned to clarify before answering.

       “I’m getting the feeling that moving is normal for you?”

       “Yeah, pretty much. Ever since eighth grade, I’ve moved almost every year,” I sighed, thinking back to that last year with the people I had grown up with.

       “Where did you grow up?” he asked.

       “Boston,” I said, the name of the city sliding off my tongue like a ghost.

       The city itself, I loved. It was a place with such a rich history, and some pretty awesome sports teams. The sports teams- I miss those a lot. From all the summer baseball games I had gone to, to the winter basketball games I lived for. Yeah, I think it’s safe to say I miss Boston.

       “You’re from Boston?” Dylan asked.

       “Yup,” I shrugged, glancing at a young mother in a tracksuit pushing a stroller down the smooth sidewalk.

       “And to think, I actually thought that the two of us may have had a chance at getting along, but I guess not,” he said, shaking his head disapprovingly.

       “What do you mean?”

       “You’re from Boston, right now, you’re in major Yankee territory,” he informed me seriously.

       “So?” I said indifferently, as if it didn’t mean a thing to me. As much as I loved the Red Sox, and despised the Yankees, baseball was never my favorite sport. It was always basketball. Though I have more of an animosity towards the Knicks, being a diehard Celtics fan and all, I am not a Yankees fan.

       “You’re not a Red Sox fan?” he asked skeptically.

       “Not really,” I lied, biting my tongue.

       “Okay then, maybe we will get along,” he said optimistically.

       “Maybe,” I said. “So, where are we going now?”

       “Best damn place in this whole crappy town!” he replied.

       “Where?”

       “The Bridge,” he said, leaving the road we had been driving on, and entering onto a larger one, which from the looks of it connected to a highway of sorts. As he drove, the morning sun beamed down, and air splashed my face at the accelerated speed we were now going.

       After driving for a few minutes on the not at all busy freeway, we passed through a small tunnel. Once we reached the end of the tunnel, Dylan stopped the car on the side of the road. He opened his door, and stepped out, coming over to my side. As he pulled open my door for me, I almost objected, but remembered it’s considered to be a “polite” thing to do.

       “Thank you,” I said, slipping out.

       “Course,” he said, abandoning his mode of transportation, and walking back to the tunnel we had exited. 

       “Why did we stop on the middle of the highway?” I asked, following him.

       “So we could do this,” he said, climbing up a group of metal brackets. They had been placed on the side of the tunnel to act as a makeshift ladder, from the looks of it. He reached the top, and the magical land that rested there, and then looked down to me. “Come on, babe!”

       “My name’s Liz,” I said, easily ascending on the side of the concrete structure. I got to the top, and stepped onto a ground of stones, pebbles, dirt, and more concrete. I saw a few patches of grass, trash, some graffiti lettering, and what looked to be a rusted, discarded railroad track. “What is this place?”

       “The Bridge,” Dylan answered, sitting down on the edge of a track piece. “Most people don’t know about this place, and others use it to smoke pot and drink; I come here to chill with friends.”

       “Did a train used to come here or something?”

       “I’m not really sure, I think so, but it was probably years ago,” he assured me.

       “Oh, that’s cool,” I said, settling down next to him on the grimy track.

       “Yeah... At night it’s pretty chill.”

       “Uh huh,” I said, feeling the phone in my back pocket begin to buzz. Pulling it out, I saw “MOM” flashing across the screen. After showing Dylan the phone, he nodded. I answered the call to hear my mother’s worried voice fretting about.

       “Elizabeth! Where the heck are you?” she demanded.

       “Uh… running,” I said.

       “Normally, your runs take at most an hour. Where are you? Were you kidnapped?”

       “Mom, I’m fine. I met a guy-”

       “You met a stranger? I knew I shouldn’t have let you go out of the house alone! It’s so dangerous!” she fussed.

       “His name is Dylan, and he’s my age. He was showing me around the town,” I said somewhat truthfully.

       “Does he play basketball?” she asked.

       “Yes,” I sighed, rolling my eyes. My mom has this thing about my friends; whenever I meet someone new, her first question is always, “Do they play basketball?” If the answer is no, she asks what sport they play. I think it’s so she has some knowledge about the type of people I hang out with, and if they’ll make a good friend, but I’ll never know for sure.

       “Is he any good?” she questioned.

       “He’s okay,” I said, glimpsing at him from the corner of my eye. He smirked at the mention of the masculine pronoun related to himself.

       “When the two of you get back, I want to meet him,” she declared.

       “Fine,” I agreed.

       “Be back in no later than ten minutes,” she added.

       “What?! Why?”

       “Because yesterday I told you that we would be shopping, and I need to account for the time it’ll take you to change out of the disaster you left in, and how long it will take for me to access your… friend,” she explained. I resisted the impulse to complain about how boring shopping is, not wanting Dylan to hear.

       “Fine. See ya soon,” I said, about to end the call.

       “Bye sweetie!” she said.

       I slipped my phone back into my pocket, and turned to Dylan. “I have to go.”

       “Now?”

       “Yeah, my mom wants to meet you or something also…” I trailed off, hoping to not scare him by the sudden mention of meeting my mother.

       “Sounds chill, let’s go!” he said, lifting his body up, and offering up his hand for me to take. I accepted it, and he pulled me up from the low ground level.

       He swiftly dropped down the side, and urged me to do the same. It was a good twenty-foot drop. If I had been alone, I probably would’ve jumped off it, but having Dylan look at me expectantly didn’t really put me in the mood to show off my epic skills.

       Once I had safely gotten down, we walked back over to his truck. We got in, and off he drove, leaving the bridge a distant location behind us. We left the highway, and came back to a more residential area, parts of which I recognized. On the ride, Dylan kept asking me questions about Boston, the other places I’ve lived, and the type of people I’ve befriended over the years. I tried to keep my past as vague as possible.

       “So, do you play any sports?” he asked as we came to a stoplight.

       “Uh… not really,” I said, completely stretching the reality as far as it could go.

       “Really? Don’t tell me you cheer,” he shuddered.

       “No, I don’t cheer,” I said as relief washed over his face.

       “Good; those girls are all prissy bitches,” he said, adjusting his mirror.

       “Hmmm…” I said, not agreeing, nor disagreeing. “So, I’m not really sure where I live…”

       “What do you mean?” he said, continuing to drive.

       “I don’t know my address,” I said uneasily.

       “Oh. Okay… Get your mom on the phone, and I’ll talk to her,” he said, instantly solving the problem. I nodded my head, and withdrew my phone, quickly dialing my mother’s number.

       “Hello?” she answered.

       “Hi, mom, where do we live?” I asked.

       “Give me the phone,” Dylan demanded.

       “You know what, I’m going to let you talk to Dylan, the person driving,” I said, reluctantly handing him the phone. I had a brief thought that in New York it might be illegal to drive and talk on the phone, but considering Dylan’s been a resident longer than me, I didn’t mention it. He put the phone up to his ear, and, after a polite introduction between the two and most likely a few too many questions from my mom, asked where the house was.

       “Okay, thank you, I will get your daughter back in less than five minutes,” he said, giving me back my phone.

       “Bye mom!” I said, not bothering to put the phone up to my ear.

       “Seems like a nice lady,” Dylan commented, going down a street. I saw the park I had walked to earlier that morning, and had a hunch we were close to my new home.

       “That’s because you don’t know her,” I said. He laughed lightly, as a pale blue house came into view that looked a heck of a lot like mine.

       “That your house?” he asked, pulling up along the curb of the sidewalk.

       “Yeah,” I said, seeing my mom’s unmistakably white car parked comfortably in the driveway. As I unbuckled my seatbelt, the thought of how my mom would instantly disapprove of Dylan’s truck drifted through my mind, slightly amusing me.

       For the second time this morning, Dylan came around to my side, and opened my door for me. I stifled the instinct of an eye roll, and got out, leading the way up the stone path to the front door. I rang the doorbell once, and as if she had been waiting behind it, my mom popped out, letting us in.

       “Elizabeth! You’re back! And you must be her new friend, the one I talked to on the phone? Dylan, correct?” she said, sounding too proper for my liking.

       “Yes ma’am,” he said, as we walked up the steps to the main level.

       “So, are you in Elizabeth’s grade?” she asked energetically, as her heels clattered about on the wood stained floor.

       “Yes,” he answered. We had migrated into the front room, so I slumped down into a chair, indicating for Dylan to do the same by patting on the one next to me. He sat down, and my mom daintily positioned herself on the couch, opposite us.

       “What sports do you play?” she asked, crossing her legs under one another.

       “Uh… as in organized ones?” he questioned nervously.

       “Yes,” she said firmly.

       “I don’t. I play basketball, but mainly with my friends. I’ve never really been one for teams, or that type of commitment,” he said. My mom raised a brow at the mention of the word “commitment”, becoming somewhat squeamish.

       “Oh, how nice. Elizabeth, how about you tell Dylan about-”

       “No!” I said, stopping her mid-sentence so she couldn’t finish expressing her full thought. She was going to say that I should tell Dylan about what and amazing basketball player I was, and how much I loved the sport. Thing is, mom, he doesn’t need to know that. One might say that I’m keeping that part of my life... hidden.

       “Okay. Well, it was lovely to meet you, Dylan. Hope to you see you again. I have to go change my shoes, I don’t think they’re working with this outfit,” she said, standing up, and clanking out of the room. I watched her retreating figure, as Dylan too stood up.

       “I should go…” he said awkwardly.

       “I’ll walk you to the door…” I said equally as unsure. We both made our ways down the steps, and to the landing.

       “Bye Liz,” he said genuinely.

       “Bye Dylan,” I said, matching his sincerity level.

       He opened the door, about to leave, when he turned back to me, and asked one final question, “I just have to know- are you single?”

       “Yeah, but single doesn’t mean I’m looking for somebody,” I smirked, quoting the lines of one of my favorite songs, which I doubted he knew. Most people listened to Mac Miller, not Sammy Adams.

       “Some say a drink blaze up a hardly,” he said, reciting the next line the song.

       “Puffin’ PK, ski a little bit of mali,” I continued.

       “Am I out my mind, most people say probably.”

       “But I’ve been on my grind puffin’ nugs of that cali, collie,” I said, finishing up the verse. This kid is so going to be good friends with me.

       “So, how does a good girl like you know a Sammy Adams song?” he asked, placing his hand on the doorframe.

       “Who said I was a good girl?” I asked.

       “I have a hunch the two of us have the potential to be great friends,” he determined.

       “Funny, I was just thinking that,” I said, as he smiled at me.

       “Bye, Liz,” he said again.

       “Goodbye, Dylan,” I reiterated as he jogged away, shaking his head. Basketball and Sammy Adams. Damn.